POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2420, 7 January 1882, Page 4

POETRY.

THE LAST CAROUSE. £The following strange poem appeared first iu the “ Bt. Helena Magazine,” a number of years ago. It relates to the time in India when the British troops were decimated by cholera It is a fine illustration of that esprit de corps which even Death in his most hideous form —pestilence—cannot overcome.] We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, And the walls around are bare ; As they shout back our peals of laughter It seems that the dead are there. Then stand to your glasses, steady ! Wo drink to our comrades' eyes; One cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies ! Not here are the goblets glowing, Not here is the vintage sweet; 'Tis oold as our hearts ore growing. And dark as the doom we meet. But stand to your glasses, steady ! And soon shall cur pulses rise ; A enp to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies ! There’s many a hand that’s shaking. And many a cheek that’s sunk ; But soon, though our hearts are breaking, They'll burn with the wine we’ve drunk. Then stand to your glasses, steady ! ’Tis here the revival lias ; Quaff a cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies ! Tims was when we laughed at others ; We thought we were wiser then ; Ha! ha! let them think of their mothers, Who hope to see them again. No, stand to your glasses, steady ! The thoughtless is here the wise ; One cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies ! Not a sigh for the lot that darkles. Not a tear for thy friends that sink ; We’ll fall ’midst the wine-onp’s sparkles, As mute as the wine we drink. Come stand to your glasses, steady ! ’Tis this that the respite buys ; A cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies ! There’s a mist on the glass congealing, ’Tis the hurricane’s sultry breath ; And thus does a warmth of feeling Turn ice in the grasp of Death. But stand to your glasses, steady ! For a moment the vapor flies ; Quaff a cup to the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies ! Who dreads to the dust returning ? Who shrinks from the sable shore. Where the high and haughty yearning Of the soul can sting no more ? No, stand to your glasses, steady ! The world is a world of lies; A cup to the dead already— And hurrah for the next that diei! Out off from the land that bore ns. Betrayed by the land we find, When the brightest have gone before us, And the dullest are most behind— Stand, stand to your glasses steady ! ’Tis all we have left to prize; One cup for the dead already— Hurrah for the next that dies ! —Babtholombw Dowxing.